


first light

by nbsherlock



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Bottom Boris Pavlikovsky, M/M, Morning Sex, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Theo Decker, listen........ it's what they deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 09:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbsherlock/pseuds/nbsherlock
Summary: “mmh,” he sighs. “feels early. back to sleep.”you drift off listening to him start to snore.





	first light

You wake up on your side, his back turned away. Pale slab of skin, marred with scars he used to have and some that are new. You can’t help but reach out and touch, fingertips along the rough edges of what must’ve been a knife wound. He tenses and then loosens up, turns over to face you. His eyes are half closed, his mouth turns up at the corner. 

“Time is it?”

You don’t know. 

“Mmh,” he sighs. “Feels early. Back to sleep.”

You drift off listening to him start to snore. 

—

Days start slow, now. They end the same, face to face in your bed with the curtains shut tight. He’ll latch to you after some time, leg thrown over your thigh, arms wrapped up in yours. You went long enough without this, you think. 

His mouth is pressed up against your neck. He kisses the skin there every so often, still drifting in and out of sleep. These days, these long slow days. The unmistakable feeling of home. 

“Are you awake?” 

He grumbles, rolling onto his back. “No.”

You roll with him, laying on top of him, sprawled out. “No?” 

“Mm, maybe,” he opens an eye. He leans up and you lean down. You kiss slowly, languidly. Just slightly open-mouthed. He’s just a little blurry, your glasses on the nightstand. Close enough to see. 

You hitch his leg up and he crosses his ankles behind your back. He laughs into your mouth, soft giggles that trail off when you cup his jaw and tilt his head up, kissing him deeper. He’s breathing fast through his nose, heels digging into the small of your back. 

He whines when you pull back, putting your mouth on his neck instead. “Potter,” he pleads— the nickname, even now. And then, “Theo,” more desperate. 

“Mm?” against his neck. His chest is warm against yours, his hips arch up. “What?”

“Fuck me,” he gasps, harsh and sharp. 

The first time you did anything together was two weeks after Amsterdam. Soup and then, eventually, sex on his couch. Just like this, his legs around your waist. Grinding together like kids again. And then, a few hours later, he was in your lap, sitting on your dick and grinning at you. 

Now, you lean over to his nightstand and pull lube out of the drawer. It’s buried among receipts and coins and currency from several countries. A hoarder, you’ve come to know him as. You, crouched by his bedside looking for a pill bottle and asking— “hey, do you need this?” and his face every single time. Why would I have it if I didn’t need it, Potter? 

You scoot back, tugging his briefs off, slicking up your fingers and pulling him onto your bent knees. His mouth is slightly open, his breath coming in short huffs. You lean down to kiss him as you slide the first finger in. He leans up to meet you, moans and pulls you down by your hair when you crook your finger inside him. 

The first few times he prepped himself, arm bent at an angle to push long, impatient fingers inside. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it, despite having had his dick in your mouth. It seemed like a step too far, getting him open for you. You watched his face go pink, his wrist twisting and screwing in deep. You listened to him moan. When he sat in your lap and slid down and you felt him from inside it started seeming like less of a far off thing, but still. Weeks passed before you put your fingers inside him. 

Now, however. “More?” he whines, pushing against you. 

You slick another up and slide it in alongside the first. “Alright?”

He wrinkles his nose at you. “Be better if you were not taking so long.”

You roll your eyes, twist your fingers and listen to him gasp. His eyelids flutter shut. You slide a third finger in and press them up. He shouts, hips twitching.

“Okay, okay, I am good,” he says, face pink, forehead slicked with sweat. “Please, now?”

You slick another finger and press it in alongside the other three, all four curling in. He moans, sweet and low. 

“It’s good?”

“Theo,” he gasps. His dick jerks, hardening again as you press at his prostate. “Theo.”

“Yeah,” you say, absentmindedly. He looks so good like this, stretched open around your hand. You want to press your thumb in and work him until he’s clenched tight around your wrist. You want to feel him fall apart from the inside. Feel him come around your whole hand. You say so, the words tripping over your tongue in low tones. He shakes, his breath fast and his dick leaking against his stomach. 

But, “your cock,” he gasps, “please.” His eyes roll back as you flex your hand. “Please?”

You nod, slipping your fingers free slowly. His hole stays slightly open and you can’t help but press your thumb there, feel him flutter against you. “Boris,” you say, just to say it. 

He’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re here. He’s always done that, shaking his head like he’s reminding himself he’s awake. Pressing his cheek to your chest after and saying it in hushed tones, “can’t believe you’re real.” 

It’s something he’d never say back when you were kids but he assures you he felt it even then, your blood on his knuckles and the two of you bending over the same toilet in the morning. Spending time with him, putting up with him. Always feeling undeserving even though you needed him. Need him, still.

You slick yourself up and press into him. The slow, soft give of his body is intoxicating. He sighs as you slide in, like you’re returning home. Like he’s welcoming you home. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. You shift your hips and he moans, his legs around your waist now. He grips your hair and pulls you down to kiss him. “Theo,” into your mouth. 

You fuck him slow and deep. He’s sweet like this, none of the jokes or the laughter— though sometimes it finds a place here, in this easy intimacy. Right now it’s just the soft sound of his breath and his desperation slipping from his lips. “Boris,” you say against his temple, pressing a kiss there. 

And then faster, his mouth falling open and making involuntary noise. Little cries, like they’re being forced out of him. “Ah, ah, ah,” over and over again. 

His breathing goes uneven. It’s cacophonous, the jarring slap of skin against his moans against the creak of the bed frame against the occasional utterance of his name or an odd “fuck,” slipping out of you into the damp air. 

You bury your face in his neck and pull him up against you. It feels so good, so right to be inside him. His back arches as you drive him closer to the edge, his mouth opening. “Ah, ah, fuck,” he says. “Theo, please. Potter, please.” You don’t know what he’s asking for but you want to give it to him, moving inside him harder, faster.

You feel him start to come before you see it, pulling back to watch his eyes close and his dick pulse onto his stomach. The sounds catch in his throat. You gasp as you spill into him, sudden and fast. His face, his pleasure. It sends you reeling. 

Your mind goes white for a few perfect seconds. 

He’s petting at you, making soothing noises the way he did when you were kids and you woke from a nightmare. Soft sounds. He’s smiling at you, toothy and bright. “Potter,” he sighs. 

“Boris,” you say back, slipping from him slowly and brushing a thumb over his collarbone when he winces. 

His nose wrinkles. “Made a mess of me, eh?”

You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.”

He sticks his tongue out, brings a knee up so you can see. It’s just starting to drip out of him. You take a trembling hand and push it back in with your fingertips. He gives you a look. 

“You say ‘shut up, Boris’,” he mocks you, “when I say something but then you go and do something just as bad?” he sniffs. “Hypocrite.” He says it syllable by syllable, like always. Hip-oh-crit. 

“Fine,” you say dryly, still moving your fingers shallowly. “I made a mess of you.” Saying it lights something up in your gut. 

He smiles, smug, knowing. “You like that?”

You roll your eyes. “And you don’t?”

“Never said I didn’t,” he grins. “Like having you in me.”

Your gut twists. The heat at the base of your spine tells you to fuck him again. 

In a bit, maybe. Right now he pulls you down to kiss you. 

“Tired,” he sighs.

Looks like another day in bed. You lay down and he rests his head on your chest, hair brushing your nose. 

You can’t complain. You spent long enough without this.

**Author's Note:**

> listen, all i can do is give the people what they deserve. 
> 
> thanks for reading! leave comments and kudos if you care to! i want to start responding to comments but i'm very bad at it. my tumblr is @margaritaville!


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